


dove of mine

by lekkojot



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, dont look at me im shipping !!!, just friends being silly and the occasional ouch, light descriptions of wounds/bleeding, nothing too serious though, probably will have wol/haurchefant in here at some point. whoops, viera & au ra warriors of light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26617969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lekkojot/pseuds/lekkojot
Summary: drabble dump for honey grovedottir, warrior of light and darkness both.





	1. indulge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sayaka sneaks into honey's quarters with a question.

"Wild rose....metaphor for...insincerity...hmm." 

The midday sunbeams shining into Honey's Gridanian quarters share with her just enough light for writing, sprawling like warm cats across her study-space. She mutters the words to a short romance tome back to them, all the while annotating and asking aloud questions as if she might receive a response equal even to a drop of her spent inks-worth. 

Or, she thought it was solely herself and the light. In a metaphorical, children's bedside story sort of sense it still very much was only herself and the light--simply put, the only thing in the room would have been Light. The sun’s gentle rays, and two Warriors of Light.

The clink of a cup on the table and a splash of hot liquid on her hand is damage enough to tear her free of her sidelining. She jumps with a gasp, glances to the side, then shoots back for a double take. "Oh, Saya- Sayaka!" 

The surprise arrival of Sayaka Sunako, comrade in arms and in covenant, is not an unpleasant one, it is just--

Sayaka is on her "Would-Indeed-Bring-me-a-Mug-of-Tea-Whilst-I-Am-Wholly-Immersed-Within-the-Thralls-of-a-Thrilling-Tome" list, although it is imperative that the words "if-She-Wants-Something" are added to the end of such a list for the title to hold true, lest she hold the rear of it. 

But, more importantly, when did she get here?

Her newfound company doesn't seem too keen on providing that knowledge, instead opting to make herself at home. The Au Ra tucks her tail surprisingly neatly behind her chair for as loudly as she flings herself into it, the heavy metals of her armors a not-so-gentle music against the aged wood of the study's furnishings. Honey swears she hears it cry to her in pain. 

"Sooooooo....," the younger begins, the downward timbre in her voice marking the spiral of both Sayaka's ability to mask true desire and Honey's quiet afternoon. 

Her blonde ears twitch a few times, signaling silent amusement. 

"Aah, so that’s what this little offering is, then." Honey leans back, folding the velvety ribbon her tome had held snugly into the page it belonged within before shutting it tight and resting it against her chest with a smile. "Prerequisite apology, is it?" 

The girl sits in silent shock for a bit, blind eyes searching what Honey can only assume is pure aether for--well, emotion? She's never quite had the right of it--before she has to wave her off. "Please. You've piqued my interest enough. What is it?" 

"If a chocobo and a dragon were to breed, what would you get?"

"Oh, gods."


	2. prices paid (and pondered)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honey is at her wits end. maybe she gets a little upset over the carpeting she defaces.

Somewhere in Lakeland, patches of purple flora have been soaked crimson. Particles of Light itself gently--decoratively--dust individual violet haulms. A breeze weaves between them and stirs a mourning song without word or prayer. Here is yet another resting place of those forgiven, although the judicator prefers not to dwell on their sins. They were never for her to acquit, only for her to execute. She is hardly a judge. Perhaps she is the gavel. 

Burial was foregone save for that of blade in white marbled flesh. There is naught to bury, anyhow. 

Elsewhere in the city, the triumphant hardly feels her victory. Vainly did she search for the care required to respect the wall she drags herself unceremoniously against, leaving a mortal trail in her wake. The fluttering in her temples nearly whisks her deeper into the pitch she’s created for herself. Her eyes remain shut tight and her brows knot in her strain. She navigates via familiarity; ear and step-count. 

When the door feels her weight, it caves and welcomes her abruptly to the floor. She only opens her eyes once the rush in her head subsides enough to allow it. And, in a moment of brilliance from a savior of worlds, muses over the carpet she’s stained. 

She remembers what color it is--or, rather, what color it was, and what color it has become. She wonders what price begets the softness that brushes her cheek. How much gil would a carpet stained with the Warrior of Light’s blood run for? Does the furnishing increase in price for any unintentional artistic notions? 

Wiry, shaking fingers dig for purchase she is unable to attain. It is the ridiculous shortness of carpeting that wrings a sob from her bruised frame. From stoicism she is yanked at last, taking her lip between her teeth and biting down. Her legs pull closer to her breast, too, successfully corking the scream that tingles in her throat. 

It always was the smallest agitators.


End file.
